


The Hunt

by Elsian



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsian/pseuds/Elsian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from tumblr: Fenders Prompt: anything with a one armed Anders & messy, angsty on-the-run sex. Maybe it's the first time they've had sex since loosing his limb?</p>
<p>Fenris is on the hunt</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hunt

Fenris had finally started to hear rumours.

Small, little things. Nothing no-one really takes any notice of, but he did. He knows how to track. He knows how to hunt and he’s looking for the signs.

Rumours of a man, someone mysterious, carried a staff, heavily bearded with long scruffy hair and ‘eyes that seen too much’ as the barkeep put it. Fenris hasn’t asked, just listened as he’d discussed it with his usual patrons before it was old news, moving onto the next story of the day, but Fenris didn’t forget, leaving his barely touched pint at the table, no doubt in his mind that he’d be the subject of next week’s mysterious customer tale.  He pulls his cloak tighter around himself, hood obscuring his face as much as possible to prevent too much going into that tale.

There is still some notoriety had being the slave that killed Danarius.

The next village holds something a little different, but similar enough that he knows he is on the right track. He asks here, the barmaid less forthcoming, and eventually learns of a man cloaked, but unhooded. A long nose but a handsome face with a weary smile. Clean shaven, his long blonde hair in messy plait that hung to his mid-back.

“He didn’t stay long, but he tipped well.” She smiles at Fenris “Is he your friend? I hope you find him. He seemed sad.”

Fenris thinks on it for a while, and she has already moved to her next customer when he mutters “He was my friend.”

He takes a mouthful of the wine he’d been surprised they had, leaves, and remembers to tip well.

The next town has yet another tale of a mysterious man, largely ignored, carrying a staff and they knew he was an apostate, and didn’t want no trouble. Tall, they say, thin with the air of a man in pain. A few days of stubble and hair that brushed his shoulders. He only left two or three days ago, a limp in his step.

Fenris thanks them for their help, inclining his head, and leaves immediately.

Anders knows he is being followed, knows that Fenris is searching for him. He is slowing down, but still trying to hide.

Fenris hopes Anders doesn’t cut his hair again by the time he finds him.

The weather grows staler as he moves further after the Mage, the Western Approach hot and dry, and Fenris hates the feeling of sand between his toes, but he presses forward. Anders is barely a day ahead now, he has been slowing, and he refuses to let he Mage lose him in the desert. There are still ways to track, even if footprints are lost in the sand.

There are subtle signs, a few drops of water yet to dry on rocks, a blackened mark where he has set a fire, a barely visible piece of cooked meat, slipped from trembling fingers.

The Mage is growing careless.

Or perhaps he simply no longer cares.

Finally, the trail grows cold, and Fenris finds himself in a circle of stone with one way in or out in the middle of the desert, and not a Mage in sight.  
If he were in Kirkwall, he would throw a bottle against a wall, destroying whatever Tevinter furniture piece looked the most expensive and be done with it, but he’s not in Kirkwall. All he has is a sword, his cloak and his rage, and he drops to his knees and screams until he is hoarse. His hands claws at the sand, but it filters easily through his fingers and gets under his gauntlets, and there is no relief.

Clenching his teeth, he makes to stand, pushing forward, and stills.

There is a cave.

It is not visible as you first enter the clearing, only emerging as one moves around, a clever natural illusion of the Rock and Fenris clenches his fists as he approaches, ready to reach for his sword if necessary.

He stops when he hears movement, and then, Anders steps out into the light.

He is thin, thinner than Fenris has ever seen him before, and he hardly had weight to spare in Kirkwall. His face is gaunt, lips chapped from the dry desert air and hair limp and lank, untied and still brushing his shoulders. He sports a good week’s worth of hair on his face, not enough to be a beard, but too much for simple stubble.

The cloak that was consistent in the tales Fenris heard is gone, presumably inside the cave Anders appears to call home, and he still wears his tan coat and green feathered monstrosity, both more than a little threadbare, his trousers worn almost bare at the knees. His left arm hangs at his side, but his fingers twitch in the way Fenris knows means he is ready to fight if necessary.  
Anders right arm is not there, and Fenris knows he shouldn’t, but he cannot help but stare.

It is a long moment of silence before he can drag his eyes away, meeting Anders own instead, and the Mage sighs.

“I suppose you had better come inside.”

Fenris hesitates, and Anders says nothing, simply turning and walking back into the cave. The elf stares at the entrance for some time before he finally takes another step forward, and follows Anders into this place he calls home.

The Mage is sat on a rock, stoking a fire under a pot of bubbling water when Fenris sees him. There is a bedroll in the corner, a few scrolls and books piled next to it, worn and clearly well-read, and the Mages pack, still together and ready in case he needs to make a hasty exit.

It isn’t that much worse than Anders quarters in the Darktown clinic, but Fenris decides to keep that to himself.

“There is water in the skin by my bag.” Anders says, not looking at the elf. “I suppose you might be thirsty, trek through the desert will do that to a fellow.”

It is a jovial sentence, but lacks any mirth, and he is still right. Fenris moves to the skin and drinks his fill, wondering what is the best way to begin speaking.

He’d spent so long focusing on finding the Mage. He hadn’t really considered what he would say upon actually finding him. There was too much, it was too soon, and he’d never been too good with words.

They still won’t come, and eventually Anders does it for him.

“Presumably this isn’t a social visit?” He laughs, but it is hollow, bitter and he stares hard at the pot he stirs with his one hand rather than Fenris. “Look, if you are here to kill me I’d rather you just get it over with. I really don’t do well with silence.”

Fenris looks around at the cave once more, this self-imposed isolation, a voluntary solitary confinement, and his chest aches.

He is in front Anders in an instant, crouching and taking his hand into his own, pressing his free hand to the mages cheek. He runs his finger over the skin, and can feel the bone as Anders inhales sharply, but leans into his touch.

“I am not here to kill you, Mage.” It is barely a whisper, but Anders has heard, and exhales shakily in relief.

It does not last for long.

“You should not be here.”

“I am here.” Fenris’ hand caresses the skin, moving to cup Anders neck before tracing the line of his shoulder, knocking out some of the worn feathers of his jacket before continuing down. His fingers trace to where the sleeve is ragged, and Anders arm ends. It is old enough to be healed entirely, but recent enough that it has the Mage shuddering as Fenris hand touches what remains of his missing limb, and the Fenris aches as Anders closes his eyes and turns his head away.

The elf moves his hand away, dropping to Anders waist.

“How?” He asks, quietly.

“Does it really matter?” Anders exhales breathily, and looks back to the elf “It is gone, and it is not coming back.”

Fenris isn’t sure Anders is only talking about his arm. He looks to the limb again, then back to Anders.

He is right, it does not matter. Anders is here with him now and that’s what counts.

“Fool Mage.” He says fondly, a small smile on his face, and he could cry when Anders meets his eyes and smiles back, taking his hand from Fenris’ to trace his fingers down his cheek, thumb brushing his lips and running down between the tattoos below to hold his chin.

Anders does cry, silent tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks at Fenris like he is only just seeing him.

“You are really here.”

“I am.” Fenris squeezes his waist “I am here.”

“You should not be.” Anders repeat, but he slides off his perch and Fenris allows himself to be pushed back, whatever Anders was preparing forgotten as the Mage crawls into his lap, pressing his face into Fenris’ neck and inhaling deeply, wrapping his arms around his neck and twining his fingers into Fenris hair. One hand digs in, nails pressing against the elf’s scalp where once there was two, and he wonders how long it might take to grow accustomed to that.

He rolls them, pressing Anders into the sandy ground, and stares down at him, trying to find the words he needs to say. Anders looks back to him, lips parted like he is trying to do the same.

There is just so much to say, and if they start talking, they are not going to be able to stop, so Fenris leans down, and pressed their lips together.  
Anders surges up, fingers digging painfully in Fenris’ head as he pulls him closer, like if he gets close enough he could crawl into his very skin and Fenris wonders how it is he feels like he is drowning when Anders still tastes so very much like fire.

He pulls at Fenris’ armour, unbuckling his belts and straps holding everything together with deft fingers that haven’t forgotten a thing, even if the single hand fumbles and Fenris says nothing as he moves to assist, Anders eyes closed and still drinking in Fenris as he discards the metal plate and his belt to the side, already running his hand down the ties that hold the elf’s tunic together, making short work of the fastenings. Fenris leans back a moment once he is done, quickly removing his gauntlets and shirt before pressing their mouths back together as he removes Anders own clothes, pulling the coats away and sliding the tunic over his head. The material has grown thin, so thin that Fenris can tell from touch it shall not last much longer before it is entirely unusable.

Anders shall wear it regardless.

His eyes dart to the arm, he cannot help it and though he does not stare, he takes notes of the twisted skin, the scars that could be deep scratches or cuts. He wants to ask, but it is not the time, and Anders will tell him in time.

Or he won’t. It doesn’t really matter.

It is even more obvious how thin he is now, without his shirt. Fenris can see his ribs even when the man does not breathe in. He never ate enough even in Kirkwall, not for a Warden, and the toll this life is taking on him is painfully obvious. He wonders if the Mage would even still be standing were it not for…

If it were not for that thing, he would not even be here and Fenris has to press Anders harder into the ground, grinding their hips together harshly to drown out the rage that threatens to rise, pushing it down to simmer until it is needed. Now is not the time.

He moves fast after that, he does not need time to think and Ander groans beneath him as he presses them together, erection swelling in his breeches, feeling the Mage beneath him respond in kind. He has no more time for sentiment, and divests them both of the rest of their clothes, gasping into each others mouths when they finally come together, bodies slick with sweat and sliding together in a way that has Fenris dropping his head to Anders shoulder, mouthing at the skin with just enough teeth to have Anders shuddering beneath him, arm draped around the elf’s shoulders whilst bony knees dig into his sides.

“Up.” Anders gasps, and it takes Fenris a moment to catch on to what he means, until Anders is sliding his hand down his torso, pressing up him and onto his knees, crouched over Anders and then he slides himself down, sucking briefly at the tip of Fenris’s cock before leaning up and taking him deep into his mouth, his hand gripping what he cannot fit in, squeezing and twisting as his tongue laves at the underside before pulling away, then back, as fast as he can at the peculiar angle. Fenris inhales sharply, hips bucking and back arching down, fingers clenching into the sand as best he can to stop himself thrusting too hard, too fast, but Maker it is difficult. It has been so long and Anders is still so very, very good at this.

It does not take long. He did not think it would. He is achingly hard, Anders mouth is wet and tight and he has missed this so much. He reaches beneath himself, fingers tangling in Anders hair, firm, holding his head as he moves and he can just blurt out a strangled “Mage!” before he is coming hot and fast into Anders mouth, the man not letting him go until he is done, hips thrusting haphazardly as he chases the end of orgasm, and Anders does not spill a drop.

It takes him more than a moment to recover, not really noticing as Anders moves his leg and rolls away to the side, Fenris still catching his breath, holding himself on his hands and knees, afraid that if he drops now he might not move again, and he is still very aware that Anders has not come.

The Mage does not seem bothered, moving to stand and Fenris will not allow that.

He pushes himself into action, bearing Anders down once more, one arm braced round his shoulders whilst the other creeps between his legs, taking Anders hard cock into his hand and beginning to pull, claiming Anders mouth with his own and smirking when the Mage gasps into the kiss and thrusts his hips, body arching into Fenris.

He can taste himself on Anders lips and he squeezes Anders erection harder than is comfortable. Andes had always liked that though, and when he cries out into Fenris’ mouth, he is glad to know that that hasn’t changed.

He pulls and tugs, knowing just how to play Anders body and the man is gasping and panting into his mouth, pressing himself harder, faster into the tight circle of Fenris’ hand, small whines escaping his throat that he is trying to hold back, squeezing his eyes shut tightly and biting down on Fenris’ shoulder to quell the noise. Old habits are hard to break.

Anders comes quietly, his whole body tense and open-mouthed. Fenris pulls his head up by his hair, biting his lip, kissing him through it until it has passed, wiping his hand on the rock nearby as Anders comes back to himself, returning Fenris’ kisses languidly, yielding his mouth and letting the elf pull him closer, tangling their legs and pressing Anders head to his shoulder. The sand on which they lay is fast becoming uncomfortable, but neither are yet ready to move, and they have lain on worse.

They are silent as they rest, the only sounds their own breathing slowly evening out, and the crackling of the dying fire beside them. He twines his fingers into Anders hair, cradling his head.

Lying back like this, Fenris can see that there is a hole in the roof, and wonders what it might look like when the moon is high, directly above the small cave. Anders hand traces the patterns and whorls that cover Fenris’s body as he lays next to him and occasionally he can feel the most featherlight press of chapped lips to his skin.

“Are you ever going to stop running?” Fenris asks eventually into the quiet of the cave, fingers still caressing the cooling skin at Anders side. Anders hums softly into Fenris’ neck, curling the arm that rests over the elfs stomach a little tighter.

“I don’t know if I can anymore.” He replies, and Fenris finds he has nothing more to say.

“I love you.” Anders says after a moment, turning his face into Fenris skin, pressing further into him as though he might disappear and as sleep pulls at Fenris’, he wonders if he said it back, would it make a difference?  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -   - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

When Fenris awakes, he is alone. He sighs, packs up what little remains, and steps out into the sun. There is a scrap of threadbare green fabric clinging to the sharp rock of the cave entrance.

Fenris takes it into his hand, a weary smile on his lips as he presses it to his face  
.  
The hunt begins anew. 


End file.
